JК
Sharpes Siege :: Корнуэлл Бернард
Страница: 86 из 223“They are my prisoners, my responsibility, and I order them un-tied!” This last was to the captain’s barge crew who, startled by the sudden shout, stooped to the bound men.
Captain Bampfylde wanted these Americans, but he wanted to preserve his dignity more. He knew that in a struggle over precedence, a struggle fuelled by legalistic interpretations of the Regulations, he would barely survive. He also felt the disarming touch of fear in the presence of these men. Bampfylde well knew what reputations came with Sharpe and Frederickson, and their ruffianly looks and scarred faces suggested that this was a battle Bampfylde could not win by force. Instead he would have to use subtlety, and in that knowledge he smiled. “We shall discuss their fate in the morning, Major.”
“Indeed we will.” Sharpe, somewhat surprised by the ease of his victory, turned to Frederickson. “Order the other Americans into proper confinement, Mr Frederickson. Use our men as guards. Then clear the kitchen and ask Sergeant Harper to join me there. Bring them.” He nodded at the American officers.
In the kitchens, Sharpe offered an awkward apology.
Cornelius Killick, who was tearing a loaf of bread apart, cocked a bloodied eyebrow. “Apologize?”
“You were given an officer’s word, and it was broken. I apologize.”
Patrick Harper pushed open the kitchen door. “Captain Frederickson said you wanted me, sir?”
“To be a cook, Sergeant. There’s some Frog soup on the stove.”
“Pleasure, sir.” Harper, whose face was almost back to its normal size and who seemed remarkably well recovered from his self-inflicted surgery, opened the stove’s fire-box and threw in driftwood. The kitchens were blessedly warm.
“You’re Irish?” Lieutenant Docherty suddenly asked Harper.
“Thai I am. From Tangaveane in Donegal and a finer piece of God’s country doesn’t exist. It’s fish soup, sir,” Harper said to Sharpe.
“Tangaveane?” The thin-faced lieutenant stared at Harper. “Then you’d be knowing Cashelnavean?”
“On the road to Ballybofey? Where the old fort would be?” Harper’s face suddenly took on a look of magical happiness. “I’ve walked that road more times than I remember, so I have.”
“We farmed on the slopes there. Before the English took the land.” Docherty gave Sharpe a sour, challenging look, but the English officer was leaning against the wall, apparently oblivious. “Docherty,” Docherty said to Harper.
“Harper.
Captain Bampfylde wanted these Americans, but he wanted to preserve his dignity more. He knew that in a struggle over precedence, a struggle fuelled by legalistic interpretations of the Regulations, he would barely survive. He also felt the disarming touch of fear in the presence of these men. Bampfylde well knew what reputations came with Sharpe and Frederickson, and their ruffianly looks and scarred faces suggested that this was a battle Bampfylde could not win by force. Instead he would have to use subtlety, and in that knowledge he smiled. “We shall discuss their fate in the morning, Major.”
“Indeed we will.” Sharpe, somewhat surprised by the ease of his victory, turned to Frederickson. “Order the other Americans into proper confinement, Mr Frederickson. Use our men as guards. Then clear the kitchen and ask Sergeant Harper to join me there. Bring them.” He nodded at the American officers.
In the kitchens, Sharpe offered an awkward apology.
Cornelius Killick, who was tearing a loaf of bread apart, cocked a bloodied eyebrow. “Apologize?”
“You were given an officer’s word, and it was broken. I apologize.”
Patrick Harper pushed open the kitchen door. “Captain Frederickson said you wanted me, sir?”
“To be a cook, Sergeant. There’s some Frog soup on the stove.”
“Pleasure, sir.” Harper, whose face was almost back to its normal size and who seemed remarkably well recovered from his self-inflicted surgery, opened the stove’s fire-box and threw in driftwood. The kitchens were blessedly warm.
“You’re Irish?” Lieutenant Docherty suddenly asked Harper.
“Thai I am. From Tangaveane in Donegal and a finer piece of God’s country doesn’t exist. It’s fish soup, sir,” Harper said to Sharpe.
“Tangaveane?” The thin-faced lieutenant stared at Harper. “Then you’d be knowing Cashelnavean?”
“On the road to Ballybofey? Where the old fort would be?” Harper’s face suddenly took on a look of magical happiness. “I’ve walked that road more times than I remember, so I have.”
“We farmed on the slopes there. Before the English took the land.” Docherty gave Sharpe a sour, challenging look, but the English officer was leaning against the wall, apparently oblivious. “Docherty,” Docherty said to Harper.
“Harper.